Lunch for Twoby David Christie

Genre:DramaSwearwords: None.Description:Lunch
for two suggests warm and convivial company, good food and lively conversation.
For Meg and James, though, lunch is a
well-trodden battleground where the weapons include jealousy, rivalry and angry
complaints about the food._____________________________________________________________________Meg
glanced across the table to see James digging down into his pudding bowl and
hauling out a generous spoonful. Wisps of steam rose slowly into the dining
room’s chilly air as she waited in silence, a slim finger repeating a neat
figure-of-eight on the mahogany table’s greasy surface. Slowly, very slowly, he
raised the spoon towards his mouth; and then he paused, his hand trembling
slightly, turning the spoon this way and that to get a better view.

That was the moment when, as though to help him, the low winter sun found a gap in the trees at the end of the garden and poured in through the dining room windows. It glared harshly at the blue-brown tarnish at the edge of James’s spoon, the smears on his wine glass, his pot belly straining at the buttons of his grubby shirt. It was, for Meg, an all too familiar yet always faintly repulsive sight; and she turned away to look fondly at the gleaming black Steinway at the far end of the room. It was the only piece of furniture in the room that she could be bothered to polish and, if she were honest, that was out of self-interest; being able to play when she wanted was one of her reasons for coming to live here at all. The other was the offer of free board and lodging in return for being James’s housekeeper. James MacLeod, one-time international concert pianist, was now tutor to Meg and the dwindling number of her fellow students at the academy who were willing to put up with his tantrums and his shameless attempts to find an excuse to drape an arm over the shoulders of his women students. Meg had once let him sit next to her on the piano stool; only once, though.He cleared his throat; the coarse rasp echoed around the high-ceilinged room. “Meg?”Meg had been keeping her eyes on the piano, a shy smile playing across her pale face as though she were dreaming of her concert debut. Would it be Shostakovich’s First? Or Rachmaninov’s Second? No, the challenge of Shostakovich, definitely. All our dreams can come true, she’d heard, if only we’re brave enough. “Meg! I’m talking to you!”It was the first time he’d spoken to her since they’d sat down. Meg didn’t regard conversation as one of her duties as housekeeper; and this meant that, if he didn’t say anything, she wouldn’t either. The silence in the room had been broken only by the scraping of cutlery on plates and his sucking and slurping as he cleared his plateful of Irish stew and emptied two large glasses of red wine. Meg always tried to avoid giving him anything that needed too much chewing, but he’d struggled even with her over-cooked stew and well-mashed potatoes. Meg dragged herself back to the present. “Mm?” “You said we were having bread-and-butter pudding today.”She pursed her lips slightly. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, I did, and that’s what I’ve made for you. It’s my mum’s recipe - you’ve had it before, lots of times. Have you some kind of problem with it?”“Bread-and-butter pudding should have raisins in it. Lots of raisins. I can only see two here.” And he rapped the handle of his spoon a couple of times on the table.“Oh, I’m sure there’s more than that! Why don’t you take another look?” she added encouragingly. She watched in mounting disgust as he poked a knobbly finger into the spoon and stirred it around. Little gobs of pudding fell back into the bowl. Then he squashed the whole contents of the bowl with his spoon into a pulp, carefully picking out the raisins between thumb and forefinger and arranging them neatly around the rim. “…three…four… five… Five! Only five! Now Meg, that’s not right. Not right at all! How many have you got in yours?” His face had gone scarlet.Meg hadn’t even touched her own bowl. “Not a clue,” she shrugged. “I don’t really like the stuff, to be honest. There’s nothing at all wrong with it, it’s just that I’m not really into puddings. Look, Mr MacLeod, I completely emptied the jar – go and look for yourself if you want. You just don’t give me enough housekeeping money, that’s the problem.” “Well, perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t. You know, Meg, I’ve been thinking. Perhaps it’s time…” “Yes?” She knew what was coming. “I was just thinking to myself the other day; you know… perhaps the time’s come for me to start charging you some rent. Not too much - say… a hundred a month? You could manage that and still afford some of your nice clothes, I hope? I like that shirt you’ve got on today, by the way. Blue suits you.” And he looked her up and down before pushing his bowl aside and smiling briefly to display an expanse of pink gum and a few badly discoloured teeth. “I was thinking too, it’s been a while since I gave you a tutorial. If you don’t mind my saying so, Meg, I really don’t think you’re practising enough. We could do some duets this afternoon. That might help.” “Thank you kindly for the offer, Mr MacLeod, but I think I’m doing just fine. My course director at the academy says so too, by the way.”“Dr Morrison? Does he really?”“Yes, he does. Anyway, it’s a bit chilly in here today. And I’ve no wish to be rude, but I should be making a move - I’ve a lecture to go to. We can discuss the rent thing some other time, if you want.”“So you’ll be back after your lecture?”“Later, sometime. I’m not sure when, maybe about bedtime. I’m eating with Mike, and then we’re going….”“Eating with Mike? And who is ‘Mike’, may I ask?” “Mr MacLeod, I’ve told you. Mike’s my new boyfriend.” He opened his mouth once or twice as though he’d thought about saying something but had then changed his mind. She got to her feet, and quickly collected the dirty plates and glasses onto a tray. His eyes followed her into the kitchen and remained on the doorway until she re-appeared after a few moments to give the table a quick wipe. “I’ll wash up later. There’s a slice of boiled ham and a bit of salad for your tea in the fridge. Now don’t wait up for me, please.” He watched her as she strode across the dining room, hands shoved firmly into the back pockets of her jeans, her boots echoing on the polished wooden floor. He heard her feet on the stairs. Doors opened and closed, and somewhere in the distance a lavatory flushed. Then more footsteps as she hurried down and crossed the hallway to the front door. It slammed behind her.He sighed. Slowly he got to his feet and pushed his chair back, its legs scraping loudly over the floor. He moved over to the fireside and bent down to pick up the poker to stir the sullen little fire. Once it was showing some signs of life he slumped back into his old rocking chair, arms folded over his belly, his breathing a heavy wheeze. Backwards and forwards he rocked, the noise of the chair like a metronome marking time as he glowered at the silent piano and the empty piano stool.

Please tell us how much you enjoyed this story.

About the Author

Born in Huddersfield of Scottish parents, David Christie has lived in Scotland since the 1970’s. He is now in Edinburgh, retired from paid work and quite new to writing. He says an Arvon Foundation course at Moniack Mhor a few years ago (led by Alan Spence) has a great deal to answer for…